The Mayflower's Prize

We are pilgrims,
navigating the channels of what will become
familial possession

Each one is mine, mother says...
Each one is mine, father says...

Having arrived or so it seems, to rest in this new country
A map of the beginning tucked in our breast

We have unfolded this land,
plucking from our pockets the seeds of certain destiny,
the genetic markers of both human and soil

We look beyond for strength,
expected guides,
but find nothing

Do we all travel alone at first?

Surely God will send a companion,
a comrade who knows the way

Surely God will send another,

One cannot have war without enemy.